This morning nighthawk's in a zooming mood -
no bat-flap flutterings or squawking calls;
maybe Miss Luna with her huge balloon
calling harvest home, promises of fall.
His corporal stripe across each slender wing,
slim body more like arrow than like jet,
a final search for fuel before going
to Mexico, Peru, or further yet.

And for the fall I too, hopeful, prepare,
but cleaning out rather than storing up.
A surplus almost caught me unaware,
weighed down by money, memories, and stuff.

As slender as a nighthawk I might fly,
and carry only peace into the sky.